


Cock Puppets

by fem_castielnovak



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Craft Store, Arson, Business Owner Crowley, Cashier Meg, Crafts, Humor, Insults, Knitting, Puppets, Sarcasm, Sass, Shopping, Smoking, Tasteless Jokes, Yarn, business owner Gabriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-02 22:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6585445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fem_castielnovak/pseuds/fem_castielnovak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Swear to God I'm working on my other stuff too, guys but this one was easy to work in and use to give myself a quick break between writing assigned papers. </p><p>I've been discussing this fic with my best friend since the day this month's challenge was announced. She's literally the only reason I'm participating this month because I really should be putting my writing energy into things I'm being graded on but here we are.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Cock Puppets

**Author's Note:**

> Swear to God I'm working on my other stuff too, guys but this one was easy to work in and use to give myself a quick break between writing assigned papers. 
> 
> I've been discussing this fic with my best friend since the day this month's challenge was announced. She's literally the only reason I'm participating this month because I really should be putting my writing energy into things I'm being graded on but here we are.

 

 

He bounces into the craft store at 7:15 am. Thirteen goddam minutes after Meg opened up all on her own. And he’s breaking all the normal customer trends which throws her most useful assumptions out the door.

7am isn’t a hard and fast rule because it’s not like she’s gonna get shit for being a few minutes late. No one else is on shift and no one comes into a fucking craft store before 10am anyways. Or at least not until this morning. And now she’s stuck listening to off-key humming of “Flight of the Valkyries” as this bright-eyed, bushy-tailed craft elf skips up and down the aisles closest to her register.

It takes about three minutes before Meg cracks. She’s ready for the break she gives herself when she’s forced to work this fruitless morning shift. And on mornings when she’s alone, she takes it indoors, at her register, chain-smoking for an hour and a half and imagining all the ways this place could catch fire. Maybe it’d start on aisle three with the balsa and carving woods. But that one was easy, and sometimes she liked to challenge herself by picturing it on the paint supply aisle. Or Meg thinks of how she’d have to help it out were it to happen on aisle four with its metal frames and mirrors that overshadow the well-spaced wooden ones. Only now, she’s wondering how plausible it would sound if she told the investigators that this _incessantly-humming_ songbird of a man barged into the store and set both it and himself ablaze, but that she’d gotten out safely.

Meg palms at the half-empty box of Camels that are weighing down her jacket pocket instead of her lungs and lips, the way it should be. She abandons her register and treads over to the beginning of aisle 6: Knitting and sewing supplies. The small man stands near the opposite end, holding oblong bundles of yarn the way a third-grader would hold kielbasa.

“Hey! Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to stop putting your crotch on the merchandise.”

He turns to her, arms falling to his sides but wearing a defensive scowl, “Okay, first off, I’m not shoving my dick up against any- and/or every-thing, so don’t make it sound like that. Secondly, I’m olding some of the merchandise up to the general vicinity of my crotch and it’s not even touching it.”

“Well, don’t … and also why?” she ask, begrudging her own curiosity.

“I’m making puppets.” He turns back to the yarn, looking between the bundles and setting down the blue one but tucking the ombre orange one under his arm before moving back towards her as he scans the other yarns.

“For your dick?” she asks sarcastically.

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

For a moment Meg doesn’t know how to respond.

“… You make cock puppets?” is what she eventually comes up with.

By then, the customer has picked up some multicolor purple and black yarn, and a mixed bag of buttons that had been misplaced on one of the lower shelves.

“ _Gabriel’s_ Cock Puppets,” he says, digging into his pocket as he approaches her. Meg recoils, not sure what he’s reaching for but she takes the card her withdraws and holds out to her. As soon as she’s accepted it, he walks past her towards the front and the registers.   
But all she can do is stare down at it. Because there it is on a cream business card with gold lettering: **“Gabriel’s Cock Puppets”** with an epithet of “handmade to order for all shapes and sizes” and an Etsy listing at the bottom.

As she stares and wonders at how accurate her guess was she finds herself startled out of her daze by the obnoxious, rapid-fire ringing of the desk bell that her boss insisted be placed at each register. With a scowl, she turns to find the man she assumes to be Gabriel repeatedly smacking his hand down onto the bell at her station, while aiming a closed-mouth, shit-eating grin at her.

She marches over to the computer and taps the screen to wake it up. “I literally can’t bring myself to imagine what a performance of that would look like.” Their system is shit so usually she takes to using the customers for her entertainment as she rings them up.

“Have you never been to a puppet show?” Gabriel asks, obviously bored and somewhat tired of her.

“So, what? Punch and Judy but with visible dicks instead of innuendos?” she asks.

“More like finger puppets-“ Meg cringes “-than hand puppets or marionettes, but yes. There’s plot and innuendo … and visible dicks. Only they’re in costumes so it almost doesn’t count.”

“Where the hell do you put on that sort of show? And who would want to watch it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know! Only, I’m not telling, because _obviously_ , you aren’t the kind of person to appreciate it.”

Meg rolls her eyes, “Well next time you come in, either make it between noon and five-” (the shift she never works), “- or pick a different song to butcher with your crap humming.”

Gabriel harrumps, “Well missy, I may just do both.” He snatches up his bag and struts out the door.

With saccharine sweetness, she calls after his retreating form; “Thank you for shopping at Crowley’s Crafts.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I love experimenting with different tactics. 
> 
> If you want an explanation, this is it:  
> [April Coldest Hits](http://spncoldesthits.tumblr.com/post/141249374010/new-april-posting-dates-14-17-april-april-rules)
> 
> If you love me or if for some reason you enjoyed this fic, do **not** leave kudos or a comment, and instead go do so on other fics in the [Coldest Hits challenge](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/SPNColdestHits) collection. Because that's how I win.


End file.
